The Plains of Fear
by chefbruno
Summary: Takes place after season two of Sherlock. The case that brings Sherlock back from the dead.


[This is a work of fiction based on the BBC television show "Sherlock." It takes place after the second season and is a continuation of the story. I am American and have only been to London once for a very brief time, so I am sure there are things that are not said the way the English would say them. I wrote this for my own enjoyment and did not do a lot of research outside looking a few things up on Google Maps and Wikipedia, so I know it's not perfect, but I hope you enjoy it as I enjoyed writing it. It is narrated by John Watson, as most of the original Doyle stories are.]

The Plains of Fear

It had been over one year since I had seen my friend, Sherlock Holmes, jump from the top of St. Bart's Hospital. The nightmares had ended, for the most part. I was able to take a part time job at a clinic; my ex-girlfriend Sarah had been kind enough to recommend me to someone. It was more of a necessity than a wish for a distraction, I needed the money. I did not wish to be distracted from the death of my friend. I spent every free moment I had thinking about it and thinking about the truth.

A short while after his death an envelope was found at the hospital, addressed to myself. I recognized Sherlock's handwriting at once. It contained only a few pieces of paper with instructions written on them. It is with these instructions that we were able to start encircling and capturing the many agents of Jim Moriarty and slowly restore the name of Sherlock Holmes. Detective Inspector Lestrade was on a forced leave-of-absence pending an internal investigation into the matter of Sherlock, but Detective Inspector Dimmock, who you may remember had been helped by Sherlock in the case of the blind banker, was working with us on the inside and one-by-one we were able to catch the gang members, and with every catch a little more light was thrown on the situation. It was now generally accepted that "Richard Brook" had never existed and Moriarty was in fact a criminal. The public had been reluctant to restore Sherlock into their good graces as of yet, however. I was watching the latest press conference of Dimmock when Greg Lestrade rang at my bell.

"Watching the latest press conference I see" he said.

"Yes, well, sort of."

"You read 'The Vagabond' too?" He had looked at my laptop which was open on the coffee table. 'The Vagabond' was a blog by a man named Homer L. Kolchess. He travelled the world posting pictures, not of the normal touristy stuff, but of the places most people never go, out-of-the-way places. Currently he was in the United States, his last post coming from Kansas.

"Yes, I look it over occasionally."

"I get a strange feeling from that blog."

"I've had the same sensation. I think we are getting very close to Moriarty. This Moran might be able to supply us the final link we need. Sherlock's papers seem to indicate he was very close to the center of the web"

"Yes, well, that's why I'm here. Moran. He was found dead this morning."

"Dead! How?"

"That's the problem, its not exactly clear. They know how he died; he bled to death internally from what appears to be a gunshot wound. The thing is, he was locked inside of his panic room at the time."

"Panic room?"

"Yeah, a room like a big safe. Thick walls, no windows, and a door that only opens with a retina scan."

"He was shot outside then placed inside to die perhaps?"

"Dimmock says no, he was definitely inside the room when the wound occurred. He'll let us look at the body a little later on. So you'll still have time to do your television interview."

"Right, good, I was looking forward to that."

"It's for the best John. You're likable. People respond to you, sympathize with you. You'll be great."

"I'll get ready."

I had been talked into to doing an interview on a national news program, quite against my will. Just a five minute spot about Sherlock and why I so relentlessly (their word) insisted that he was not a fake. It was a couple minutes into the interview that they announced that they had another guest on the show to talk about Sherlock, James Moriarty. All the blood ran out of my face at the mention of that name. There was no possible way he was alive. And he wasn't. The man who came on the stage was definitely not Moriarty.

"That's Colonel James Moriarty, of the United States Army," he said, with a sly smile.

"Yes, I apologize," the host replied.

"The younger brother of the man who was brutally slain on the rooftop by the imposter Sherlock Holmes," he interrupted. He was about the same height as Moriarty. There was a resemblance in his face, but only a slight one. He seemed to be about the same age as Moriarty. He was not wearing any sort of military uniform, but then I am not an expert on the regulations of the United States military. His clothes looked expensive, but they were rather casual, except for his shoes, which looked very expensive, were very formal, and very well made. He had dirty blondish short hair and smoky blue-grey-green eyes which, unlike his supposed brother's, never seemed to focus on anything.

"Every expert has agreed that Moriarty committed suicide. It's undeniable," I said.

"Sherlock Holmes arranged everything else; you don't think he could have arranged that?"

"Sherlock Holmes arranged nothing."

"My brother was no angel, but he was surely not the devil this man makes him out to be."

"Your brother!…your brother…how well did you even know your brother if you're from America?" Lestrade was gesturing wildly for me to calm down from behind the cameras.

"How well did you know your brother?" the host asked.

"Not very well at all, until I was sixteen. Our mother was a servant girl in a wealthy household, I know which one but as part of a settlement I am not allowed to say the name. The master of this house was a cruel man and raped her repeatedly. She had two sons by this man, but as he did not wish for his wife to know what was going on he made her put them up for adoption. I was adopted by an American family. But when I was sixteen I left my family there; they were always abusive towards me. I found out who my mother was and found that I had a brother who had already changed his name back to her name, Moriarty, as his adopted family was also abusive towards him. She had christened us both after her father, James."

"So you are admitting that his name was not, in fact, Richard Brook?" asked the host of the show.

"Yes. Richard Brook was a stage name. Plenty of actors do that, and he _was_ an actor. I returned to America and joined the Army, where I have quickly made a name for myself."

"Yes, thank you," said the host. "I am afraid we are out of time for today, maybe we can carry on this conversation in the future."

I was visually seething by this time. It was a good thing we had run out of time; I'm not sure what I would have done next. I got up and left. As I walked out I could see the reflection of Colonel James Moriarty grinning behind me as he talked with a woman, but his eyes were on me.

We went straight to the morgue from the studio. Molly Hooper was there. That was another surprise as she had also taken an extended leave after the grim incident of a year before. She had the body of Moran on the table ready for us to look at. Another body bag was on the table next to it, but that was hardly anything unusual and I took no notice of it. Lestrade made small talk with Molly while I looked at the body. He was desperate to act like things were the same as they had always been.

"There's what looks like a tattoo, or perhaps a brand, on his forearm. Looks pretty fresh. Some person's or group's trademark? Does that symbol, a triangle in a circle, mean anything to you Lestrade?" I asked. He shook his head no. "There's a small wound here on the abdomen, looks like an exit wound. Molly, can you help me turn the body to see the back?"

"Sure. So, Dr. Watson…"

"Molly, call me John."

"Right, John. How's the new flat?" People trying to make cheerful small-talk had come to annoy me almost as much as it used to annoy Sherlock.

"Fine, thanks. Are there only the two wounds?"

"I don't know. I had only just started when you came in. Why?"

"Look at this. The front and the back. They both appear to be exit wounds."

"That's impossible!" said Lestrade.

"Yes, impossible. He would have had to been shot form inside his own gut."

"Brilliant, John!" The familiar voice struck me like a knife, and the sight of Sherlock Holmes sitting up out of the body bag on the next table sent my head spinning.

I have only fainted once in my life, and I never thought that it would be possible not to be ashamed of it. When I came to with that familiar half-smile of my friend right beside me I almost fainted again, but I was lying down now so it was a little easier to control my swimming brain.

"Dear God, Sherlock!" I exclaimed.

"I must apologize for giving you such a fright, John."

"It's really you. Isn't it? It is. Yes?" I sat up at this point. "It's really you! This isn't a dream. I haven't had one of these dreams in a few months. Tell me it's not a dream."

"It isn't a dream. I'm quite alive."

A million things were running through my mind, and all I could do for a few moments was sit and stare at him. "Why the HELL didn't you let me know! Do you _know_ what I've been through? I saw you...I saw you jump…off the roof…I saw you jump off the roof onto the pavement. You were dead. Molly did the autopsy." I was pacing the floor wildly by this point. I wanted to punch him and hug him at the same time, so I thought it best to stay away from him, not knowing which I would end up doing.

"Were you there for the autopsy?"

"No…I was…a little shaken."

"It didn't seem odd to you that Molly wasn't 'a little shaken?'"

"Well, yes, it did. But then that's her job, and you were always so rude to her I figured maybe, once she saw you there on a slab, she might actually be a little happy to be rid of you." He just stared at me. "Why didn't you tell me!?"

"I did, John. You just didn't notice."

"What…what does that mean? What are you talking about?"

"You've been reading my blog."

"You're blog?" My breathing was starting to relax.

"The Vagabond."

"The Vagabond. What? You? You're the vagabond?"

"Homer L. Kolchess." He held up a piece of paper with the name written on it.

"It's an anagram…for Sherlock Holmes. Oh, stupid, of course. I knew there was something strange there. Why didn't I see it?"

"Well, to be fair, you had seen me fall to my death. You weren't exactly looking for puzzles from me."

"Yes."

"I knew you wouldn't notice, but I knew Mycroft would."

"Mycroft. You've been in touch with Mycroft."

"No, haven't spoken a word to him, but he knew what I needed and when I needed it. It was all there in the blog. How else do you think I got in to all those countries and could afford to fly around the world? It's hard for a dead man to buy a plane ticket, unless he has some help from Mycroft. Besides, I needed you not to know. I needed you to think I was dead."

"What? Why?"

"To give you purpose, to avenge my name."

"Yes, well, we have been following your instructions…" Here he spoke right over me as he had so often done before:

"I'm glad you've been keeping a slow pace."

"We've been working as fast as possible…oh…" He shot me that quick smile just as I had remembered it. Same old Sherlock.

We went to the lab where Lestrade and Molly were still waiting.

"Feeling better I hope," Molly said in her usual kind and unassuming voice.

"Yes, thank you."

"Don't worry," said Lestrade, "I was weak in the knees myself, and it wasn't my name the bloody zombie had called out. If you hadn't gone down I'm sure I would have in a few more seconds."

"Thanks, Greg."

"Dimmock can get us into Moran's house a little later this evening. We'll just have to hang tight until then."

"Good," said Sherlock. "Night is better anyway. I need to stay dead for a while longer."

"Dimmock has officially declared Moran's death a suicide."

"Excellent! We'll meet there after sunset then. You're welcome to come if you wish, Molly."

Maybe this wasn't the same old Sherlock. The looks on everyone's faces told me I wasn't the only one thinking this.

"OK. Wait, umm…no. I think I'll leave that to you," she said.

I returned to my flat, hoping to catch a little rest after the unbelievable morning and early afternoon I had just had, but that was not to happen. My landlord heard me come in and brought me a letter. It had been delivered by courier late in the morning, just after I had left with Lestrade. It was a plain manila envelope with only my name upon it, printed on a computer, not that I would have been able to deduce anything from the handwriting myself. It felt thin, almost like it had nothing in it, so I figured it wasn't booby trapped in any way and opened it. It contained a single sheet of plain white copy paper with several roman numerals on it. They were all in pairs. Book code, just like the cipher in our blind banker case. I spent the rest of the afternoon checking every one of my books, but none of them made any sense of the code.

Sherlock texted me and I met him and Lestrade in the narrow alley behind Moran's building. It was a nice building; very modern and rather upper class.

"Where's Dimmock?" I asked.

"He's not quite willing to risk getting caught with us just yet," answered Lestrade. "He told me he would make sure the second window from the right on the second floor would be left unlocked."

"I'm glad he made it nice and easy for us." There was a trellis next to the window, flimsy, but stable enough for us to climb up. Once inside Sherlock had his usual look around while we stood there. After awhile he seemed to be at a loss so I decided to show him the letter I had received.

"It's book code, obviously," I said.

"Yes. Good!" He held the paper up to the light, as he often did with objects. "It's from Moran."

"How do you know? How can you tell?"

"Moran was suffering from arthritis, could barely move his hands some days, and could certainly never hold a pen for any amount of time longer than it took to sign his name, which he had even started doing with just the initial of his first name. It's a short message with just 'John Watson' on the envelope; most people would have just written it out, certainly the envelope in the least, rather than bother to type and print it. Plus, the paper is watermarked. Moran had a flair for putting his mark on things."

"I checked every book in my house, nothing made sense."

"Moran was clever, everything we need is here. He used Roman numerals. That suggests a more formal book, a dictionary or thesaurus perhaps. It has at least two hundred five pages, and one page has at least four hundred thirty words, must have been a hard word to find, and the print must be pretty small, so dictionary and thesaurus are looking good. But look here. The very first letter of the first number is a 'j.' J is only used in Roman numerals at the end of a number, as a substitute for an 'i.' So, it's…"

"An encyclopedia. I just ignored the 'j,' thought it was a typo." Sherlock had grabbed the encyclopedia off the shelf and was leafing through it. He found the page he was looking for and started counting the words. I took the opportunity to have a look around the room myself.

"'The.'"

"What?"

"This word, the four hundred thirtieth word, it's 'the.' He could have gotten a 'the' anywhere. Why count so many words?"

"To make it harder to crack?" I ventured. Sherlock begin looking for the other words.

"No. It's not making any sense." I continued to have a look around the room when something caught my eye.

"Sherlock, try this one." It was an older edition of the encyclopedia, leather bound, and each page was numbered using roman numerals. It took only a few minutes for Sherlock to decipher the message with the correct book in his hand. It read like this: "Brother will kill me has what you need empty house plains street using code name Janus."

"Janus, the god with two faces," I said. "Just like the car dealership. I guess that's why he used the J encyclopedia. And book code just like the Black Lotus used. Plus the tattoo, or brand on Moran's arm. It's weird." Sherlock was in one of his trances, however. Muttering over and over to himself "Plains Street." Then a smile came across his face.

"He's messing with you, John."

"He who? Moran?"

"No. Moran used the book code because he knew you would recognize it, but he's lying dead in the morgue. It's the brother."

"What brother? Moran had a brother?"

"Moriarty."

"Moriarty!" exclaimed Lestrade. "You're not saying he's still alive too!"

"Not Jim Moriarty. His brother, the Colonel."

"The one I met this morning," I said, "at the television studio?"

"Yes. He's almost as evil as his brother, but on a different level, a different plane of fear. Jim Moriarty used his mind, and occasionally a bomb. Col. Moriarty uses weapons. He gets what he wants by threatening people. He's managed to get a fair distance in life and thinks of himself as clever, but it was his brother who was pulling the strings. Their mother was actually a prostitute, and a somewhat callous one from what I've been able to piece together of her. I suppose that is where they inherited the trait. They most likely had different fathers.

"Moran sent you a warning. He was ready to talk, share his information about Moriarty and his brother the Colonel, but he knew he might be murdered, so he passed the information on to you, hoping you would make sense of it. Lucky for him I'm not actually dead. Then he actually was murdered."

"But how?"

"With this." Sherlock had walked into the restroom which was between Moran's study and bedroom and picked up one of those pill boxes with a compartment for each day of the week. He flipped the lid open for the day before; it was empty. He opened the compartment for the current day; it contained two small pills and one large pill.

"That's a big pill," said Lestrade. "A pill, like the 'Study in Pink.'" Sherlock winced at the title of my blog post, it still bothered him.

"Yes, another convenient analogy. I tracked Col. James Moriarty to Kansas where he had a cabin tucked away in the Flint Hills. Very out-of-the-way. He blew it up though so I was only able to catch glimpses of things as they burned around me."

"You ran into a burning cabin?" I asked.

"Yes, sorry you couldn't have been there. The "Colonel" smuggles arms on the side. The army thing is only a front, though he must be blackmailing somebody, or a whole lot of people, to keep it up. He has no official position with the military, and he moves about as he pleases, but he is still on the payroll. He must have helped his brother, provided weapons and such, so he needs to stop you before you pry too much further. One thing I saw was the plans for what looked like a bomb. It was pill shaped. Not a large bomb, evidently, but a small bomb, meant to cause enough internal bleeding to kill a man but leave no visible wound."

"But it did leave a wound, it left two wounds."

"It hasn't been perfected, or at least the model Col. Moriarty got a hold of hadn't. The casing still blows off in each direction, causing two tiny exit wounds if they happen to travel in the right directions."

"OK, so now we just need to find an empty house on Plains Street."

"Yes, but there is no Plains Street in London. Plains Street, Plains Street…"

"Isn't Kansas part of 'The Great Plains?' Could it be a reference to that?"

"Ah!" He took out his phone and began to look something up. "Col. Moriarty is definitely not like his brother, sentimental. He loved his great plains, his prairie hide-away, but the closest he could get here in London, Plane Street. Moran must have heard him say Plane Street and assumed it was Plains Street without realizing there wasn't any Plains Street; he simply thought it would make sense for Moriarty to choose Plains Street. It's in the south part of the city, not an ideal location, but Col. Moriarty liked the idea of it and doesn't know much about London himself."

"It must have been difficult for Moran to find the word 'plains' when 'plane' would have been easy to find under 'jet.'"

"Look, there's a house for sale."

"So we know where they are," said Lestrade "let's go get them."

"No, they'll be keeping a close watch. We'll have to set a trap."

"A trap?"

"Yes. We need to move John back into Baker Street!"

That is how I found myself happily moving back into the very familiar surroundings of 221B Baker Street. Much to my surprise everything was almost just as it had been when I left it. Blackout blinds had been installed over the windows and Mrs. Hudson had packed a few things away, but they were all still there, in boxes in the hallway. Mrs. Hudson greeted me at the door, all smiles and good cheer.

"Oh, John, I'm so glad you've decided to come back! And don't you worry a bit; you won't have to pay one cent more than you were before. I don't need the money anyhow."

"I suppose it doesn't hurt that Mycroft is paying Sherlock's rent."

"Yes, well, you didn't hear that from me."

"I understand. Thank you, Mrs. H."

I walked up the stairs, recalling every single creek they made as I went, and past the sitting room door, where I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Sherlock standing in one of his usual pensive attitudes.

"Sherlock, how did you get here so fast? I didn't expect to see you till later. A little dangerous for you to be here, don't you think?" I said.

"John," said Mrs. Hudson, "what are you all about? You know that's not Sherlock standing there."

"What?"

"It's a wax figure. Rather creepy if you ask me. Mycroft dropped them off just the other day."

"Them?"

"Yes, there's one of you too, sitting there in the chair. You don't have any legs. But why did you ever talk to it as if it were really Sherlock?"

I stood there with my mouth open trying to think of something, anything, to say, but no words would come to me.

"Because, Mrs. Hudson," came Sherlock's voice form the kitchen behind us, "that's precisely why that figure was made, to fool people into thinking it was me."

Mrs. Hudson turned with tears in her eyes from hearing the familiar voice. For a moment I was afraid for her safety, afraid she might faint as I had, but it seems only I was destined to this embarrassment.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed as she rushed over to him and gave him a hug. "I knew there was a reason Mycroft wanted to keep paying the rent and wouldn't let me touch a thing. Look at you!" Then Mrs. Hudson slapped him, right across the face. I couldn't help but laugh. Sherlock looked genuinely surprised.

"I was expecting that from John, not from you," he said."

"You deserve a lot more. What you've put us through! All your equipment is in the boxes in the hall. I can bring them in now if you like"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but first I think we should see about getting the scratches in your table fixed. I can't promise not to make more with my carryings-on, but I can at least fix my prior damage."

Mrs. Hudson was rather taken aback by these statements, things she thought she had said to me alone, but the smile across Sherlock's face assured her that everything was back to normal. Just then the doorbell rang and she went down to see who it was.

"Do you like your likeness, John?" he asked me.

"It doesn't have any legs," I replied.

"Yes, well, the only photo I had to show of you was the one from your blog, which unfortunately was just your torso, so you'll have to remain seated. Ah brother! Do come in!" Mycroft had indeed just come up the stairs, followed by Lestrade.

"Isn't it wonderful to see you all back in your proper places. Though the thought of there being two of each of you is a little frightening; not sure London, nor the world for that matter, is quite ready for that."

"It is nice to be back," I said. "I'm awfully glad Mrs. Hudson decided not to let the place out to anybody else, or even clear it out, even though I'm certain she could have used the money. She is a true gem."

"Yes, isn't she?" said Mycroft. Of course we both knew full well what each other were up to. "I just came by to make sure everything was to your liking."

"Quite perfect, thank you," said Sherlock.

"Good, then. I'll leave you fellows to your schemes."

Mrs. Hudson had busied herself with unpacking the boxes from the hall, putting all the familiar lab equipment back on our kitchen table and countertops, not heeding, or perhaps not believing in, Sherlock's plans to have the scratches fixed. We set a meeting time and place for that evening. Sherlock instructed me to raise the blackout curtains over the left-hand windows but leave them on the right. I decided to follow his instructions without question; there were far too many other questions on my mind at the time. After he and Lestrade had left I removed the blinds and looked out at the same old Baker Street. It had hardly changed a bit, except for the flat across the street, which had been blown up in our first encounter with Moriarty and had been briefly occupied by a deadly assassin in our second, had a sign reading "For Rent - Modern Interior!" in it. A light snow had just begun to fall.

"I'm going down to the café to grab a bite," said Mrs. Hudson. "Would you like me to bring you anything John?"

"No, I'm fine thanks." I was already feeling quite comfortable and at home again in the old flat.

I was reading the paper when I heard the door open and footsteps coming up the stairs. I had called Lucy, a wonderful lady I had been on a few dates with, and told her to come over but that was just moments before, and she likely wouldn't just let herself in, so I assumed it was Mrs. Hudson returning from the café, although she typically used the rear entrance. Luckily I had hidden the wax figures, not wanting to have to explain them to Lucy, so the woman who came through the door, who was definitely not Lucy, was left unaware of their existence. This woman had long, dark hair; Lucy had shorter, blond hair. This woman was tall with sharp, angular features and an aquiline nose; Lucy was on the shorter side and had soft features. This woman, except for the hair, looked Scandinavian while Lucy had a definite English look. This woman wore a pastel pink trench coat; a color Lucy would never touch, thinking it was too stereotypically "girlie."

"Hello, John," the mysterious woman said. I felt I had seen her before but could not determine where or when.

"Hello," I said hesitantly.

"I'm glad to see you have moved back into Baker Street."

"Yes, well, Mrs. Hudson has continually begged me to do so and the rent is quite a bit cheaper. Who are you?" She made herself right at home.

"Just call me 'the woman.' I didn't come to chat about the rent." She had started to unbutton her coat and to walk closer to me. "I came to talk about you. I'm a huge fan."

"Um, thank you." She took off her coat to reveal a rather tacky dominatrix costume. Was this another strange scare-tactic from Col. Moriarty?

"Come now, John, tell me what you like." She pushed me (she was very strong for a person her size) back into my chair.

"I'm afraid you have the wrong impression of me."

"Do you think so?" Her eyes darted around the room, focusing on everything except myself. Just then I heard the door and footsteps coming up the stairs. It must be Lucy, I thought; my mind was in a panic. I tried to yell out, but the woman had her hand over my mouth.

"Woo-hoo," I could hear Mrs. Hudson as she reached the top of the stairs. I was relieved, but only slightly, that it was just her. "There was a lovely lady at the front door John, I've brought her up…" she came in the door, "oh dear!" There she was with Lucy standing right behind her, her face in shock, and me sitting with a dominatrix on my lap.

"This is not what it looks like," was all I could think of to say when she finally removed her hand.

"I best be going," said the strange woman as she finally got off of me. She picked up her coat and slowly started to put it on. Lucy started crying and ran down the stairs and out the door. I started to run after her, but I couldn't leave Mrs. Hudson alone with that horrible woman. I was half-way down the stairs and could see Lucy get in a cab through the open door. The woman in the pink coat walked down beside me and paid no attention to the angry look on my face. Mrs. Hudson had come to the top of the stairs. We stood in silence until the door had closed behind the pink coat.

"Now what was all that about, John?" she asked.

"I…I don't know," I replied.

"We should have been happy to have him gone, to not have all this trouble all the time, shouldn't we have? But we weren't, were we?"

All I could do was to sigh. "No, we weren't." I spent the rest of the afternoon leaving voicemails on Lucy's phone and finally got her to meet me for coffee. I was able to smooth things over a bit.

When it was time to meet Sherlock I took a cab and had it drop me off a few blocks from where we had agreed to meet. It was a quiet side street and a light snow was still falling. I was a little early so I walked slowly; I didn't want to attract attention by standing around in one place for too long. It turned out that that was not a problem as the place we were going to meet was a bus stop. There was no one around except for an older man with a hunched back waiting for the bus, his nose buried in a book, one of a stack he was holding. I went to the bus stop and checked all around for other people.

"You're going to hurt your back standing like that, you know," I said.

"We won't be here much longer," said the old man, who of course was Sherlock. "Nice touch, walking here."

"I didn't walk the whole way."

"I know."

"No you don't, you noticed."

"True. I hope you had a pleasant afternoon. Spent some time with your girlfriend I see." It was going to take some time to get used to Sherlock's snap deductions again.

"Yes I did, but that's not the only interesting thing that has happened to me this afternoon."

"I'm sure I'll want to hear about it, but now here is our ride." It was also going to take some time to get used to his stubbornly aggressive nature again.

A silver sedan had pulled up to the curb. D.I. Dimmock was driving and Lestrade was in the passenger seat. We headed south through the city towards Plane Street (I had had to look it up on the internet.) Traffic in some areas was quite heavy that evening, barely moving for several blocks where there had been an accident. Sherlock grew more and more impatient. He pleaded with Dimmock to use his light and siren to force the traffic out of the way, but as this was not official police business Dimmock refused. "You need one friend still active on the force," he said, "so I suggest you have a little patience." He was absolutely right, of course, but this did nothing the relieve Sherlock's frustration.

We parked a ways from the house and went around to the back entrance. Sherlock told us to keep in the shadows, along the sides of the walls, and to not make a sound. Hardly necessary, but we knew how he was. Through a laundry room and the kitchen there was a long hall that led to the front of the house, a door on one side leading into the dining room and on the other a door leading to a restroom. In the front room there was enough light coming in off the street that we could easily see a man sitting in a chair, apparently keeping watch. He was absolutely still.

"We're too late," said Sherlock, quite out loud; it startled me and I think Lestrade as well. Sherlock walked into the front room and turned on the light.

"What are you doing?" asked Lestrade. "They'll be back, let's just sit and wait."

"No, they'll be getting out of London as fast as possible. They did what they came to do. The planted a seed of doubt on the show with John and tried to make Moriarty into a sympathetic character. They killed Moran and took whatever papers he might have had that would condemn them."

"But what about me?" I asked. "And Lestrade? We still have information that could condemn them."

"He'll be having someone take care of you tonight yet, a local hired assassin most likely." Sherlock had his magnifying glass out and was examining the dead body. "He has also suspected that I might still be alive for some time, and he'll be happy to hear later that he is rid of me as well. Lestrade doesn't seem to concern him; he either doesn't know you're involved or he thinks you're stupid, either way they haven't been following you. Cover of darkness always gives people such a false sense of security; there's still time." He motioned for me to look at the body.

"Body is still warm, it hasn't been here long," I determined. "Single gunshot, execution style. No signs of a struggle. I'd say the person who shot him was quite a bit shorter than Col. Moriarty, however, judging by the angle of the wound."

"You're right. Interesting. Why didn't he do it himself?" I always get a deep sense of satisfaction when I am able to observe something Sherlock Holmes has not. It doesn't happen all that often, unfortunately. Finally he gave the body a big sniff then started to explain. "The poor bloke must have developed a conscience. He's not one of their assassins; he's a sailor, his hands are callused from the ropes. There are wood and metal shavings in the cuffs of his pants, he's been working on a boat very recently. Everything is dry though, so the boat has been in dry dock, extensive repairs or modifications. Most likely a privately owned dock, painting a boat purple would draw attention."

"Purple?" I said.

"Yes, dark purple. I suppose it's an attempt to mimic the color of the river during twilight, therefore making it harder to see. There are traces of the paint under his fingernails. He smells of fresh water, not salt water, so they'll be heading for the Thames, not trying to make it to a North Sea port, but of course that makes sense. Detective Inspector Dimmock, we'll need the closest police boat to Putney Bridge."

"Why there?" asked Lestrade. Dimmock wasted no time and got right on the phone.

"Tartar sauce," said Sherlock.

"Oh, right, of course."

"There's a fish and chips stand near Putney Bridge known for its unique recipe of tartar sauce. The secret ingredient is tarragon, gives it a nice anise-y licorice flavor. He must have forgotten to grab a napkin because he used his shirt sleeve."

"There will be a boat waiting for us," said Dimmock.

"Good. Think we can use the lights and sirens this time? Dead body after all." With that we were out the front door. "Footprints, barely started to fill back in, they don't have much of a head start. Two men and a woman."

"A woman!" I said, remembering my encounter earlier that day.

"Yes. These are Colonel Moriarty's; he likes his Italian leather shoes. These are the woman's. These are heavier boots, probably the boat's captain."

We rushed to the car and were off.

"Sherlock, I was trying to tell you earlier about the woman that came to Baker Street," I said.

"Yes, you're girlfriend."

"No. This woman came over before my girlfriend, who isn't really my girlfriend yet, we've only been out a few times. This other woman came right in. She was wearing a pink coat with a rather tacky dominatrix costume on underneath."

"Ah! More of the colonel's weak scare tactics."

"Should we be expecting giant dogs next?" quipped Lestrade.

"No. Moriarty wasn't involved in the Baskerville case. The brothers must have corresponded and bragged about their exploits."

"I'm sure I've seen her somewhere before but I can't place where," I said. "She was Scandinavian looking, beautiful blue eyes, but she had jet black hair, which obviously could have been dyed."

"You saw a picture of her," he said grimly.

"I don't think so."

"Yes, at Moran's house."

"No."

"I know where you saw her," said Lestrade, "at the television studio."

"That's right!" I said. "She was with Col. Moriarty."

"That is bad news," said Sherlock. "She's Mrs. Moran. I had rather hoped she had fled after Moran was found dead. They weren't actually married, but that is what everyone called her. I don't think anyone even knows her real name anymore, she included. She's every bit as deadly as Moran himself was. That explains the angle of the execution shot. She likes her guns. Now she's with Col. Moriarty. That is interesting…. This will be more difficult than I thought. You better call for some back-up, Dimmock. Get every boat and car available to the Thames."

Just then a voice came over the radio:

"Shots reported fired at 221 Baker Street. No casualties reported. Subject has been apprehended."

Sherlock smiled. "No casualties except for two wax figures."

We had just gotten on the river when we saw the purple boat race by. It was a bit difficult to see, blended into the water. We were soon in pursuit and steadily gaining on them. When we got a little closer they started firing at us. That gave Dimmock reason enough to call in every boat and car that could be mustered, as Sherlock had requested. They set up a blockade at one point, but the purple boat had been specially fitted for this possibility and rammed right through it. Their captain was good, but obviously shaken and fearful as he swerved violently from time to time, so we still continued to gain on them. Every now and again something would splash into the water; they were throwing something overboard. Sherlock stood absolutely still through every bump and curve, staring at the two figures firing and reloading their weapons. Then suddenly he spoke to me:

"You won't have much time, but get ready to shoot when I say. Aim for the captain, but try not to kill him."

"OK" was all I could say. I moved to the side, found some good footholds, and readied myself, though I must admit that I did not have much faith in myself, especially with the heavy fire we were constantly under.

"Now!" yelled Sherlock.

There was a brief pause in the gunfire. Both Col. Moriarty and Mrs. Moran were reloading; they happened to overlap for a few brief seconds. I swung out over the side and took my shot. As both of them were raising their weapons their boat took a sharp left turn, throwing Mrs. Moran into the water. Their boat then hit the shoreline, where it was quickly surrounded by police cars and boats.

The second trial of a James Moriarty in just as many years was every bit as sensational as the first one. It started with headlines reading "Another Moriarty on trial - Is this one real?" and ended with headlines such as "P.I. Rises from the ashes like a Phoenix." There were still a few weapons and prototypes of weapons on the boat; they hadn't managed to throw them all into the river.

Lestrade wanted to have divers fish them up, but Sherlock advised that there were certain things that perhaps belonged at the bottom of the Thames, and there was enough to go on already to put them away for life. So many criminals cut deals to testify against Moriarty that the trial threatened to go on for a lifetime. The highlight was, of course, when a supposedly dead Sherlock Holmes took the stand.

Back at Baker Street things were more or less back to normal. Normal for 221B Baker Street, at least. Clients slowly started to trickle back in, most of them much too boring for my friend's skills, however. Lestrade was reinstated and came for advice from time to time. It was weeks later when I finally felt like asking the big question.

"So how did you do it?"

"Do what, John?"

"You know what."

"Oh, that. It was quite simple, elementary you might say…"

(I will make no attempt at explaining how Sherlock survived his fall from Bart's Hospital. I will simply eagerly wait season three and the reveal from the creator's themselves.)


End file.
